Here is the small leftist pub,
alongside the small whorehouse
where the old woman gathers her fat in a chair
and promises cab drivers a good time
with the worn beauties inside
leaning topless on the bar,
leaning
on the pile of waste that is their lives.
Here is the small leftist pub,
where the grey man smiles
and plays the oud
(could wood and strings reach the soul like that?)
he sings,
and his rough voice sinks
into us like a rock,
Umm Kulthoum and Fairuz and Abdel Wahab,
ya leil ya ein,
the most famous words of our language,
ya leil ya ein
and we clap and dance and hope
the term papers will write themselves,
here is the small leftist pub
and another,
and another.
Here is the restaurant,
where Nagham the waitress knows we have
lots of lemon in our lentil soup,
and lots of cigarettes in our pockets,
and tells us to smile, smile, smile,
“because smiling is such, such, a nice thing to do,”
and the black kohl on her eyes is thicker than
memories and Turkish coffee
and darker than
the streets outside.
Here we are,
drinking sunset and soup again,
drinking time away again,
time that vanishes like a small white cloud
in a blue-sky day,
in Hamra street,
here’s to another day in Hamra,
and another,
and another.
